


i'll never get to heaven ('cause i don't know how)

by Imagineitdear



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (when the snap happens), ...except that's mostly canon, Alternate Universe - Dystopian, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Identity Porn, M/M, Minor Character Death, Police Officer Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Rebel Bucky Barnes, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers is Not Captain America, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel Fix-It, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unlike freakin' endgame, and the power of love, just Fake Science
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-02-25 23:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18711574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagineitdear/pseuds/Imagineitdear
Summary: “It’s fucking over, my friend,” Bucky declared, not knowing how right he was.Or: AU in which Bucky and Steve are ordinary, average teenagers playing a video game when half the world is dusted. Five years later Steve works under the police state government and Bucky is a part of the Insurgence when they meet again and are faced with the chance to undo it all.Ordinary men played no part in the end of the world--but perhaps they need to play a part in its rebirth.





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired by my frustration over Endgame, the resulting writer's block I've had ever since while trying to provide a fluffy sweet ending to 'Recipe for Demisaster' (WHICH I'M STILL WORKING ON I PROMISE), and last by all my fellow Stucky fans out here mopping up their tears still. 
> 
> Here's a mop.
> 
> (title from Lost on You by LP)

 

“It’s fucking over, my friend,” Bucky declared, not knowing how right he was.

 

He heard a snort in his headphones. “Right,” Steve said into his headset, sarcasm evident.

 

It was the endgame, the two of them the only ones left on the map. Bucky’s scope pinned on the outline of Steve’s player mostly-covered by the small fortress he’d built. Bucky had the higher ground, and there was no way **cap_USA** would wait for **wintersoldier310** to come to _him_. Steve made a strategy, executed it perfectly, and just had to hope Bucky’s legendary bolt-action sniper didn’t hit its mark fast enough. Sometimes it didn’t, sometimes it did.

 

But Bucky had him before it even started, this time.

 

“I’m hungry!!” Becca yelled in his ear the next second, and Bucky jerked hard enough to hit a few important keys. Steve cackled with triumph from his headphones, running to start whatever plan he had this time while Bucky was distracted.

 

“One minute!” Bucky yelled back at her, blindly elbowing his little sister away.

 

“You said that hours ago!”

 

“I said that like five minutes ago!!”

 

Becca huffed and finally backed off a little, probably giving Bucky that murderous glare a 7 year old really shouldn’t be able to pull off. He kept his eyes glued to the screen, trying to spy where the hell Steve’s player went. He was so fucked.

 

“You’re so fucked,” Steve told him.

 

“Yeah, whatever. You still have to get close enough to make a shot,” Bucky pointed out.

 

“I’m going to tell Mom and Dad,” he heard Becca say, not screaming but loud enough to hear through his noise-cancelling headphones.

 

“You had lunch an hour ago, Becca,” he answered, probably louder than he needed to. Whatever. “Go make _yourself_ some cheese crisps.”

 

He didn’t hear any smart ass reply, so Bucky assumed she’d finally given up.

 

“After this I have to stop for a little bit, babysitting my sister today,” Bucky told Steve while trying to find him. He had gone to a lower level of the building he was on, scoping out each window. So far, no luck.

 

“Parents gone?” Steve asked, and Bucky sighed.

 

“Yeah, they’ve been on vacation for their 20th anniversary, leaving me all alone with this twerp for the past five days--”

 

“Mom--?” he heard Steve ask, sounding strangely confused.

 

Bucky frowned. “Yeah, my mom too--”

 

But then he heard the distinct sound of Steve ripping off his headset, the harsh noise of the microphone hitting his desk. Bucky winced, but then whooped for joy. Steve’s mom must have demanded he get off for something. Fair was fair--Steve couldn’t just leave Battle Royale during the endgame. Not without facing the consequences.

 

Bucky abandoned his sniper position and found Steve’s player in the middle of an alley, having just made a lightning trap. Now standing there listlessly. He killed him in one shot, ‘#1 Victory Royale!’ appearing on his screen.

 

“HA! Take that, Cap,” he laughed as he sat back, only a little disappointed it was so easy.

 

Steve didn’t get back on.

 

With that done, there was no avoiding his little sister’s demands. Mom wouldn’t be happy if she found out Bucky was making her cheese crisps right after ordering pizza for lunch, but then again she also wouldn’t be happy with the amount of Fortnite he was playing either. Still, the dishes got done every night, Becca still had all twenty fingers and toes, and no one had set anything on fire. Bucky wasn’t sure what else his parents could expect leaving their sixteen year old son in charge for six days.

 

“Alright, Becks, I’m all yours,” he sighed while taking off his headphones, swivelling around on his chair.

 

Becca was no longer behind him. Strange, considering he hadn’t heard her stomping down their stairs like she usually did.

 

“Becks?” he asked as he looked around his empty bedroom.

 

Maybe she’d decided to make her own cheese crisps after all, he realized with growing horror. Something _would_ light on fire if he let that happen. Becca was strictly prohibited from using the microwave ever since she burnt a hole in a plastic plate a few months ago and started the smoke alarm.

 

As Bucky headed down the stairs he called out, “If you’re using the microwave you’re in big doo-doo!”

 

But Becca wasn’t in the kitchen.

 

It was around this point, Bucky realized later, that the feeling started in his stomach.

 

Dread was too simple a word for it. Worry, fear, confusion--all were present, yes, but on top of that was the unsettling feeling like he’d just been hollowed out. Like he’d dropped weight, almost, like some parts inside him had abruptly been evaporated.

 

(That was exactly what happened.)

 

“Becca?” he called with a lot more urgency this time, looking around the kitchen and then the living room. “Becca this isn’t funny!”

 

She wasn’t in her room, or their parent’s. She hadn’t gone to the bathroom. She wasn’t in the basement game room or storage area, or outside on the deck. She hadn’t hid under any beds or in any closets. She hadn’t climbed up to their treehouse.

 

“Hey! Have you seen my dog?” the cranky old man who lived next door called to him as Bucky climbed back down.

 

“Have you seen my sister?” Bucky yelled back, and the man shook his head.

 

“No, but I bet _she_ took him,” he said with a scowl.

 

Bucky scowled back. “My sister is 7, she wouldn’t steal your dog!”

 

“Snoops can’t leave the yard unless someone takes off his collar,” he shook his finger at Bucky. “You tell me them both going missing isn’t a coincidence?” Bucky just rolled his eyes and decided he didn’t have time for this, running back inside to check a few more places. He could not believe Snoops running off was in any way related in any way to this actual disaster.

 

(He was wrong.)

 

After another minute of searching, Bucky admitted to himself he needed help. His parents were still on their way back from Hawaii right now, and the longer Becca stayed missing the more in trouble he’d be when she was found. He could guess a few places she might have gone--Aunt Libby’s, for starters, considering she didn’t live far and knew how to make cheese crisps vegans would salivate over.

 

So Bucky bit the bullet and called his aunt, whispering, “Please be there, please please please be there, Becks,” while it rang.

 

The phone picked up on the last dial. “Bucky! Becca! Who is this!” he immediately heard Aunt Libby bark, momentarily stunning him.

 

“Uh...Bucky,” he recovered, “Just calling because I think Becca left the house--”

 

“Did she vanish? There one second, gone the next?” his aunt demanded.

 

“Yes--?”

 

“Bless her soul,” Aunt Libby laughed, though it sounded more like a sob. “At least he took her.”

 

“What? Who took her--”

 

“The Lord, Bucky,” she replied, sounding even more solemn saying the honorific than usual. “I know your parents didn’t raise you two as believers, but Becca’s heart must have just been so good--”

 

“We need to find her, Aunt Lib, she could be in danger!” Bucky interrupted. His mother’s side had always been religious, but he’d never thought of them as _crazy_ until now.

 

“Bucky baby, listen to me,” she said. Her voice wavered, like she was trying to keep it strong and failing. “My husband just blew into dust in front of me. Beth is not in her room. Everywhere on my street, the neighbors are looking for their family and pets. It’s over, hun.”

 

Bucky hung up on her then.

 

He looked out his window, just to convince himself his aunt had gone crazy--but if she had, it seemed, so had everyone else. People were walking or running in various states of confusion and distress, calling out names, on their phones talking rapidly, or staring into the distance. A car had run into someone’s yard, though no one looked to be inside. Bucky quickly closed the blinds, backing away slowly.

 

“Becca, where are you?” he whispered to the walls around him.

 

Finally Bucky felt a modicum of sense return to him, and hastily picked up his phone again. It felt surreal, typing in 911 and then ‘Call.’ For some reason, he’d never imagined needing to. Bucky hastily pressed the phone to his ear, wondering how this worked as the ringing started. Was it anything like the movies, where they’d ask, “911, what’s your emergency?” Or would he be asked where he was first? And would they believe him in the first place?

 

The phone kept ringing. And ringing.

 

And ringing.

 

(And ringing.)

 

TWO WEEKS LATER

 

“Please, please, just form a line, thank you,” the police officer was saying, as he and his men prodded the group into single file. “Quickly now.”

 

They were in a gymnasium, one Steve had been wheezing around in an attempt to run the mile and not fail his gym class just two weeks ago. He was near the back in the line the policemen were making, kicking aside any bedding in the way from people sleeping in here the past few days. It was quiet, too quiet to be a gym filled with upwards of a hundred kids.

 

They were trying to keep everyone together. He’d stayed at his and his mom’s apartment for a few days after, but police were trying to round up the orphans, keep them safe. And large groups felt safer, even to Steve at first, after what had been termed ‘the dusting.’ There was less chance of someone going up in smoke without someone else at least noticing, anyway.

 

Although Steve had yet to see anyone since his mom and his cat do that. From what he’d heard, it seemed to be a one-time occurrence. One minute, the world rolled on, and the next--the next, the world rolled on without what felt like half its occupants.

 

“What are they doing?” a young black boy whispered next to Steve, watching the police officers warily.

 

“Probably just counting us,” he assured the kid, then added, “Don’t worry, I won’t let them hurt anyone.”

 

The boy just shuffled a little bit behind Steve, and it was a testament to how small he was that Steve’s slight figure could in any way hide him. Steve shot back a smile over his shoulder, to show everything would be fine.

 

(Nothing was fine.)

 

“Name? Age?” he could hear one man repeat as he and another man with a clipboard slowly made through the line. The man stamped the back of each child’s hand, and moved on to the next.

 

When he got to Steve he answered before the man could ask, “Steven Grant Rogers, 18. Steven with a V.”

 

The policeman stopped as his partner started jutting a note down, eyeing Steve up and down. He held up a hand to his partner. “18, huh?” he asked.

 

Steve may have been the incarnate of a bean pole, now, nearly 6’0 foot with hardly 130 pounds on him. But he was no kid.

 

“Yes, sir,” Steve said in a steady voice. His birthday was in July, of course, but this guy didn’t need to know that.

 

The man stepped a little closer, saying softly, “You sure you want me to put that down, son?” He glanced around them, then added, “We couldn’t help as much, you see.”

 

“18, sir,” Steve repeated, this time lifting his chin a little.

 

The officer sighed and nodded at his partner to make a note of it. He took Steve’s hand and punched it with a purple stamp.

 

The black boy answered them next, quickly and politely, “Dante Stomer, 10,” and had his hand stamped green without further comment. He glanced up at Steve, who nodded at him encouragingly.

 

Steve stared at the ink on his hand, the meaningless purple dot staining his skin. He should probably care what it meant. He should probably care what happened to him. While he would protect this boy as promised, would stand up for anyone mistreated here, he also wouldn’t say he knew any better than these policemen how to help them.

 

The world had ended--according to the news thanks to some extraterristrial nutjob--and Steve had no idea why it was still pretending to go on.

 

“Alright, everyone with green dots follow me, Sheriff Rich, and everyone with blue follow Officer Stanley near the exit there,” the main policeman said when they were done. “Grab your stuff. You’re going to get relocated temporarily to a different building until we find you a home. Lots of parents without kids, too, guys. Alright? Alright.”

 

He motioned for them to begin moving, which the kids slowly obeyed. Steve, along with a few others, stood motionless. Still waiting.

 

“18 and older, you guys are adults,” Sheriff Rich said, looking unhappy. “You can stay here, go back to your house, find relatives--just be safe, okay? If you don’t know where to go, come talk to me.”

 

Steve didn’t know where to go, but he didn’t approach the man with his sob story. His mother had moved to the US by herself, raised him on her own. His apartment was not a safe place _before_ the dusting, and he was sure it’d been looted at the least since he left it. His best friends were online ones he’d never even met in person.

 

There was no one to turn to.

 

“Hey,” Sheriff Rich said, startling Steve out of his spiral of despair. He put both hands up when Steve jumped, stopping his approach. “Sorry. Just wanted to say--I’m working with less than half of my division right now. I could use a brave man like you, son.”

 

“I’m not--”

 

“You watched out for that kid,” Sheriff Rich answered with a smile. “Just think about it.”

 

Steve, despite himself did. As Sheriff Rich and the other officers took the kids out of the gymnasium, onto buses, and left Steve and a handful of others standing there, Steve thought about being able to help those who were left. Who still had lives to live, hope to continue on. He thought maybe, just maybe, this was one way to actually help them.

 

(Maybe he should have thought a little harder.)

  
  


**FIVE…**

 

**YEARS…**

 

**LATER...**


	2. During

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought it'd be good to clarify before continuing: in this au, HYDRA wasn't a thing in the 40s and so SHIELD was never created either. But everyone (besides Bucky and Steve obv) grow up when they do in the MCU. Yeah? Cool.
> 
> I'm just kind of churning out these chapters for now until I start getting through the 'Endgame block' as I've termed it for everything else I'm trying to write...so expect updates to come in rapid succession for now while I attempt to write out my frustration. Thanks friends!!!

There were two things Bucky was sure he’d never get used to, no matter how many years passed.

 

First, the silence.

 

As he walked through the abandoned districts of Brooklyn, New York, the only thing making more noise than him was the wind. Even the rats, somehow more numerous now despite taking a 50% hit with the rest of the world, made hardly a peep as they scurried out and under abandoned cars, rotting stands and forgotten trash. Bucky had to keep a sharp eye on the ground in front of him to avoid stepping on one.  _ That _ noise would certainly carry over the wind.

 

It was a problem only because of the second thing he’d never get used to: the dark.

 

Bucky stayed along the edges of the street as he neared the light districts. Border patrol kept a tight line around them, but there were always holes. Pockets of darkness they couldn’t account for, places for Insurgents to slip in and out of without notice. He passed behind another apartment building, under an overpass, and through a rip in the chain-linked fence creating the border without so much as spotting a border policeman. And he'd gotten good enough to spot them long before they spotted him.

 

Bucky hid behind an empty garbage dump while his eyes adjusted to the streetlights, finally able to see more of his surroundings. Not that there was much to see: a barren alley, some old graffiti on the brick wall too faded to decipher. No one had the spirit for vandalism anymore, it seemed. Bucky could hear voices in the distance, two men talking to one another softly, but nothing more. Not even the bark of a dog, or the slam of a door. 

 

(People closed things quietly, now.)

 

It would make his job much easier, if Bucky could hide behind noise. As it was, he relied on the shadows between the street lights as he slinked out of the alley, looking for the meeting point Sitwell had described to him. Indeed, just down the street Bucky quickly spied out the four-pillared stone front of the bank, closed soon after the dusting. But he could also make out the two men he’d heard talking earlier, standing at its front.

 

They were arguing, he could tell now. And, unmistakably, wearing the heavy-geared, militaristic uniforms of border police. 

 

He was so fucked.

 

Minutes passed, but still they stood there, talking insistently at each other. Bucky checked his watch and hissed--he only had 2 minutes until he was expected to be inside the bank, waiting for the package. The deliverer wouldn’t just leave it there for him to find. They couldn’t risk something so important falling into the wrong hands.

 

And they’d cut his fucking rations off if he came back empty-handed, Bucky had no doubt. 

 

Just when he thought he’d have to create a diversion or something else phenomenally stupid, the two men seemed to finally settle whatever it was they’d been arguing about for the past ten minutes. The taller one threw up his hands and said, loud, “Then go! I’ll finish up,” walking off with a self-righteous sort of anger. The other walked Bucky’s way slower, looking around him with his automatic held securely in both hands.

 

Fortunately, he didn’t look too closely around the truck Bucky was currently pressed against, and kept a slow tread down the street for long enough that Bucky made a break for it.

 

There was a truck drop-off spot on the side of the bank, which Sitwell promised would be unlocked. Bucky ran to it with as much stealth as he could, hardly holding back a loud sigh of relief when the second knob of the double doors moved without resistance. Bucky quickly ducked into the room, allowing himself finally to breathe.

 

As far as he could hear or see in the pitch dark, no one was there waiting for him. A good thing, really, as Bucky could wait as long as he needed to unlike whoever worked from the inside. If Bucky was found out, he’d be killed quietly. If someone from within the government was revealed as Insurgent? They’d be dragged through the streets.

 

Bucky felt around in front of him for the nearest wall. It was a big room, that much he could tell, but little else about the room was visible. He called out a “Hello?” as he walked around, only stopping when he stepped on something powdery beneath his shoes. 

 

(Some _ one _ powdery beneath his shoes.)

 

An involuntary breath hissed in through Bucky’s teeth as he jumped back, feeling something cold crawl up his spine. But after the initial horror came only grief, an old parasite gnawing at Bucky’s heart. Reminding him it was still not cold and shrunken enough to avoid the pain--the memory of finally noticing the little, inconsequential scattering of dust in his bedroom all those years ago while the phone rang and rang and _rang_.

 

He was wrenched from that old grief by the quick open and close of the door behind them, the streetlight flashing the silhouette of a man before the room plunged back into darkness.

 

“Hail Hydra,” a rusty male voice said.

 

“Hail Hydra,” Bucky echoed, heart finally calming.

 

The next moment a light flared up, blinding him. Bucky flinched and held up a hand as his eyes readjusted, recognizing first the harsh circle of a flashlight being pointed at him. Then, as it was pointed above them, illuminating the room, Bucky recognized one of the armed border police standing in front of him.

 

“Sorry we were squatting, kid,” the guy said, noticing Bucky eye his clothing. “My partner’s a real stick up my ass. Couldn’t get rid of him easy.”

 

Bucky nodded slowly, relaxing his posture. “The package?” he asked, and the policeman nodded.

 

“Yeah, gimme a sec,” he said in that gravelly voice of his, rummaging through one of many pockets on his cargo pants. “Boss told me to tell you, this one is time-sensitive--”

 

Then at once the door opened again, this time without finesse or stealth. It was meant to startle, and it did just that--Bucky scampered back against the wall, and Rumlow immediately held up his gun and flashlight in one at the tall intruder at the doorway, before lowering it with a sigh.

 

“Rogers, you scared the shit outta--”

 

“Who’s that?” the man, ‘Rogers’ apparently, said, clearly the partner Bucky’s associative was just complaining about. He had a flashlight of his own, and flashed it in Bucky’s face obnoxiously.

 

“A trespasser, clearly,” the first one said with amusement. Bucky had to swallow down his shock.

 

Of course he wouldn’t give himself away to his partner. He  _ had  _ to pin this on Bucky, because he wasn't the one with the package, and the Insurgance could easily send another if Bucky didn't make it out of this. He was, in a word, dispensable.

 

But Rogers didn’t immediately seem inclined to shoot, so Bucky took his own shot. He fell to his knees and cried out in the most pitiable voice he could manage, “Please, I’m just lost! I couldn’t get back in time for curfew, I thought I could wait in here for the night--”

 

Bucky took in a surprised, pained gasp as a hard boot connected with his side, cutting off any more of his words.

 

“Rumlow,” Rogers said with disapproval. 

 

Bucky’s associate, ‘Rumlow,’ let out a rusty laugh. “You believe him?” he said. “Kid looks like trash to me.”

 

Bucky held back a glare in Rumlow’s direction, just clutched his side and moaned.

 

Rogers sighed. “We do have to report it. But as long as the kid’s registered I say we turn him loose.”

 

Bucky looked up in surprise, in time to see a similar grimace cross Rumlow’s face. Handing over the package was about to become impossible.

 

“Please!” he cried, standing up with one arm still tucked in his side. “Please, I’m not trouble. Just let me go--”

 

“You shouldn’t be out here. It’s dangerous,” Rogers said, in a kind but firm voice that left no room for argument. Bucky darted a glance at Rumlow, who gave a hard look back, and he realized what he had to do.

 

Without warning Bucky barreled into Rumlow, grappling with him for his gun and keeping Rumlow between him and Rogers, who immediately shouted, “Stop! I will shoot, stop, let him go--” But Bucky could feel the moment Rumlow slipped the package into his pocket, and immediately slumped, allowing Rumlow to pin him to the ground. He fought mostly for show as his arms were wrenched behind him, a heavy boot on the back of his neck.

 

“Shit, kid almost had me for a second there,” Rumlow laughed above him.

 

Roger’s voice was weary as he approached with the familiar sound of clinking handcuffs. “You could have walked,” he said to Bucky quietly, solemnly, almost like he was disappointed in him. Bucky fought the urge to laugh. He held mostly still as Rogers handcuffed him, sighing when Rumlow finally took the pressure of his boot off his windpipe. Rumlow proceeded to pat him down, confiscating the handgun tucked down his pants and surreptitiously ignoring the bulge of the package in his pocket.

 

“Yeah, well, now you have an excuse to feel me up, officers,” he said in a flirtatious tone as Rogers hauled him to his feet. Laughing as he felt the man stiffen in response.

 

“You’re getting due process, nothing less nothing more,” Rogers said around gritted teeth, pushing Bucky forward with unnecessary force. Rumlow shouldered his automatic and led the way out of the bank.

 

Bucky felt the package slip deeper into his pocket, and grinned.

 

**TWENTY MINUTES LATER**

 

The kid was whistling where he sat handcuffed to the railing, a loud, disconcerting sound in the quiet of the light district border. Steve threw him another annoyed glance, but the kid was too busy gazing up at the sky, looking for all his current situation like he was right where he wanted to be.

 

“Lots of stars,” he said at one point with a flick of his shoulder-length hair, finally laying off the whistling. “Didn’t grow up here myself, but I imagine there weren’t too many before. Ay?”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Rumlow growled at him where he sat in the single office chair their post had been given, scowling at the starkpad in front of him.

 

“No luck,” Steve guessed, to which his partner grunted.

 

“Lots of Jamie Bakers, none even close to this kid’s mug.” He leaned back with a sigh, running a hand through his greasy hair. “Look, Rogers. We either put him down, or we send him to Command. No way this kid’s not an Insurgent, anyway.”

 

Steve felt a harsh, squeezing sensation in his stomach. He would never ‘put down’ an Insurgent, like some officers did--but sending this kid to Command was close to a death sentence anyway, if not worse. It was more than most of them deserved, for the things the organization did. But this kid could hardly be out of his teens. 

 

“We don’t know anything for sure,” he argued, to which Rumlow shrugged.

 

“Then we send him to Command for interrogation.”

 

Steve glanced at the kid, who was looking up at the stars studiously but clearly listening in. “He’s as good as dead there,” he hissed.

 

Rumlow narrowed his eyes. “Only if he’s guilty.”

 

It was true. Command was an organization for justice, not meaningless punishment. But this kid had a gun and an attitude, and just that look about him--well-fed enough to not be scrapping in the dark districts, yet sallow-looking enough not to be benefiting from the livable rations of the light districts--to be one of  _ them _ . An Insurgent, a rebel, an anarchist. Intent on shattering the fragile order the US government had managed to maintain the past 5 years.

 

(Order the government had to  _ fight for _ the past 5 years.)

 

Steve pulled Rumlow away, far enough to avoid their eavesdropping captive. “He doesn’t deserve death,” he murmured, prepared for the way Rumlow’s eyes traveled over him in disbelief. “I know he attacked you, and had a gun--”

 

“And isn’t fucking registered,” Rumlow added, though his rough voice was just as soft. Steve looked at him in surprise--Rumlow was never known for his merciful nature. “Yeah, Rogers. I don’t want that shit on my hands either.” He sighed, rubbing his face for a moment, before adding, “We can’t just let him go, though.”

 

Steve felt a tired old dread as he asked, “What do you have in mind?”

 

A minute later they approached ‘Jamie Baker,’ or whatever his actual name was. He flashed an arrogant smile at them both, though Steve could see the tightness at its edges. “Want something, boys?” he asked with a waggle of his eyebrows.

 

Rumlow snorted, and backhanded him.

 

“Fuck,” the kid swore, sucking in a bloody lip. It was terrible timing for Steve to consciously note that, for living it rough, the kid was still pretty attractive with that devilish mouth and those expressive eyes.

 

“Where is your base in this light district?” Steve asked. “You tell us, we let you go.”

 

“Oh, a deal huh?” the kid said with a snort. “And I have the honorable word of an officer that you’ll actually let me go?”

 

Rumlow kicked his leg, hard, and Steve held back a sympathetic wince as the kid shrunk his legs in with a cry, wrapping an arm protectively around them.

 

“It can’t hurt your chances,” Rumlow said, in that wicked voice he so easily could put on when interrogating. Unlike Steve, who just wasn’t cut out for this sort of work.

 

The kid looked up through a sheet of hair then, though, eyeing Rumlow for a second before whispering, “I’ll tell you. Please, just don’t . . .”

 

He whimpered and didn't finish. It was an act, Steve could tell. But a convincing one, nonetheless. “You’ll go free,” he repeated, with all the sincerity he could muster.

 

The kid was silent for a good long minute, and Rumlow got impatient.

 

“ _ Where is it _ !” he yelled, landing a blow on the kid’s side with a fist.

 

“I don't know!” he gasped, then coughed for a few seconds. “I've never lived in this light district, in any of them. But the warehouses on the bay usually, that’s where . . .”

 

He could be lying through his teeth, but Steve didn’t have the heart to make sure. “Alright,” he nodded at Rumlow, who held out a hand for the key to the cuffs. Steve ignored him, though, crouching down himself to unlock the kid. “The Insurgents don’t care about their own,” he murmured in his ear as he did. “You’re working for people who’d use you as much for your death as your life, if it benefited them.”

 

He leaned back, searching the kid’s face. ‘Kid’ wasn’t really an appropriate term, he had to admit. Though the young man was on the slighter side--like Steve used to be before the academy got him fed, meds, and in shape--his cut jaw and old eyes were clearly that of an adult’s, not a child’s. 

 

Especially when ‘Jamie Baker’ murmured back, “And you aren’t?”

 

The moment Steve stepped back the kid was on his feet and running out of the office-turned patrol base like there were hounds on his heels. Steve went after him instinctively for a moment before remembering they were letting him go, slowing down at the door’s threshold. He watched with a strange tightness in his chest as the kid booked it down the street, quickly disappearing down an alleyway.

 

But not quickly enough for Steve to miss the strange bulge in the kid’s side pocket.

 

“Did he have something in his pocket?” he asked Rumlow as he pocketed his handcuffs, and saw the ever-so-slight tension suddenly stiffening up his partner’s spine.

 

Rumlow turned from whatever he’d been doing on the starkpad and looked Steve straight in the eyes as he said, “Yeah. Big water bottle. Kid stays hydrated, I’ll give him that.”

 

It was one of his tells--straight eye contact, short, clipped sentences. Like the time he told Steve he only was violent when he had to be, or whenever he agreed ‘that’s too bad’ about a citizen’s misfortune. The man couldn’t fake a genuine feeling to save his life.

 

But those lies were nothing like this one. This one had implications Steve didn’t want to consider from his own partner, who he was supposed to be able to trust with his life. It’d only been two months since Sam had quit and Steve was reassigned to Rumlow, but it wasn’t till this moment that Steve suspected Rumlow for anything more than a callous, sadistic grease ball using this job for the power trip it could occasionally supply.

 

No. If Rumlow was in any way lying for an Insurgent, he was much more dangerous than that.

 

“Good for him,” Steve responded, perhaps a beat too late. But he rounded over to the desk and sat in the office chair with a sigh, trying for nonchalant. “And good thing you finally convinced me to let us split. If you weren’t walking that direction, you wouldn’t have seen him.” Rumlow had spent nearly ten minutes arguing with him about following protocol versus the efficiency of Rumlow finishing their nightly report while Steve walked the last of the patrol.

 

Was Rumlow really capable of lying about all that? And for what? Something in the kid’s pocket . . . something Rumlow gave him, perhaps?

 

“Yeah, good thing you found me before that kid wrung my throat,” Rumlow laughed dryly. He stood straight then, dropping the starkpad on the desk. “Report’s all done. The second day shift arrives we’re free men, Rogers.”

 

“No mention of Jamie Baker?” Steve guessed, to which Rumlow gave a thumbs up.

 

“It was a very dull, very routine patrol, of no interest to anyone,” he said with a wide grin. “Don’t worry, Rogers.”

 

Steve smiled back, even as he was beginning to wonder if he should be very, very worried after all.


	3. Amidst

The Insurgency wasn't a war base, full of criminals and bombs and weaponry. 

 

Mostly, it was compounds that housed refugees. People abandoned by the government, looking for protection from looters and gangs and trigger-happy patrolmen. Among them were a few Bucky would even call friends--Pietro, for instance, who lit up the moment he saw Bucky in the dusty morning light of the old ship warehouse. 

 

“You bring ration tokens?” he asked, on Bucky’s heels as he walked through the mass of people.

 

“Hopefully,” Bucky said, though he’d secretly already checked for the precious commodity. It was, like always, included in the packages they were sent from the light district Insurgents. He hadn't, however, read whatever the scroll of paper said inside. That was the _true_ package Sitwell had sent him for.

 

“They say they'll start using me soon,” Pietro said with hope, like risking his neck sneaking back and forth through the patrolled border was something to look forward to. Bucky couldn’t blame him--he’d been up and raring to go when they deemed him competent enough two years ago. That's all he thought it'd be, at the beginning. While those were the most common missions, it was the least of the Insurgent's dirty work he was ordered to carry out.

 

He smiled at Pietro, and didn’t say what going out there was really like. A reminder of just  _ how _ different the world was now, when living on one side of a city could the mean the difference of being treated as an innocent citizen and a shoot-on-sight hostile.

 

Sitwell was on the phone when Bucky walked into the bald man’s little office, though his eyes widened as he noticed the package Bucky dangling from an outstretched hand.

 

“This is it?” Sitwell demanded the second he ended the call, snatching the plastic cylinder out of Bucky’s hand as he started to hand it over. 

 

Bucky shrugged. “He didn’t mention anything else.”

 

“Shouldn’t be surprised,” the other man scoffed.

 

Jasper Sitwell was formerly mayor of New York until he’d been ‘discovered’ as an Insurgent. According to the rumors around here, of course, the government higher ups were just tired of his sloppiness. Now he had to slum it with the rest of them in the dark districts, without electricity or running water. It showed. His face was much more lined than it ever was a few months ago when he arrived, his voice much gruffer as he sat back and said, “A message? That’s all they give us?”

 

Sitwell glared down at the piece of paper he’d unrolled, tossing a decent-sized bag of ration coins to the side. Bucky immediately grabbed that, intending to distribute it to the others accordingly.

 

“Barnes,” Sitwell barked, stopping Bucky before he could leave the dingy room.

 

“Sir,” Bucky turned with a raised eyebrow.

 

“You’re going to need those.” He gestured at the bag in Bucky’s hands.

 

"Yes," Bucky said, feeling the other eyebrow raise along with the first. "We all will."

 

"Just you," Sitwell shook his head. "The rest will have to get by. They're  sending you on another mission--further into the light districts.”

 

Bucky felt his stomach drop, though he hid it with a smirk. "How far exactly are we talking?" he asked.

 

"Manhattan," Sitwell said plainly, folding his hands on the desk. 

 

Bucky couldn't stop the way his face blanched, paling. "I have a _record_ , Jasper. If anyone were to catch me--"

 

"Then I suggest you don't get caught," Sitwell snarked back. 

 

He had to take a deep breath in through his nose to stop himself from strangling the guy. "Okay," Bucky breathed out, "Fine. Who exactly is the target, in _Manhattan,_ New York?"

 

Sitwell got a little more smug, if that were possible, before answering. "Anthony Stark."

 

(He was soooo fucked.)

 

**TWELVE DAYS LATER**

 

The night shifts were slowly killing Steve. 

 

Modern medicine had done him wonders--not only saving Steve’s life multiple times, but also ensuring him full recovery, without lasting impact on his frame and health. Now he was left a grown, fully developed man, taller than expected, even able to put on muscle. Corrective contacts, pills, and a ready inhaler were the only remaining necessities after a long childhood of hospitalization. 

 

A medical marvel, truly. All wasted by working night shift.

 

Steve blamed it on whoever was scheduling them. One day off a week was the standard, but Steve and Rumlow kept getting those days back to back. So nearly 12 days had passed before he could finally rest, and maybe see the sun.

 

And if that didn’t do him in, Rumlow's insufferable-ness giving him an aneurysm sure would.

 

“Thank fuck,” Rumlow was saying as the next shift arrived. “Gotta find myself a tight little bitch to fuck before I ever see any of your faces again.” He punctuated his words with quite a few crude gestures and way too much hip thrusting.

 

The two fresh patrolmen laughed at him. Steve kept his back turned to avoid them seeing his scowl.

 

“What’s wrong, Cap?” Rumlow asked behind him, all syrupy concern. “No guys willing to help you out? Maybe if you didn’t already  _ have _ something up your ass.”

 

He knew Steve was bisexual, and that was Steve’s own fault. It hadn’t seemed a big deal, if a little weird, to answer when his new partner asked about his sexuality. But that was only Hour 1 into their first shift together, back before Hour 2 when Steve realized just how crude and disgusting Rumlow could be. 

 

The patrolmen were laughing, so Steve spared a tired smirk over his shoulder before walking briskly out.

 

He took in a deep breath through his nose as he walked to the light districts, taking comfort that the sun was beginning to rise. He made his way down the empty street quickly, all the sooner to put distance between him and Rumlow. If he didn’t get time away from the bastard right now, he was bound to throw a punch.

 

As he walked, Steve remembered a time when 7:30 in the morning was rush hour along this street. Things still kept busy in the most populated areas these days, but the outskirts of the light districts were avoided by most. A thick, heavy line seemed to have been drawn by the city electricity, deciding which areas to continue lighting based on the densest remaining population. Everyone else had to move, or risk being mugged or worse.

 

Except for the criminals themselves, of course. Their work had always been better done in the dark--of course they thrived in the dark districts. Like the kid, that ‘Jamie Baker,’ no matter how innocent he seemed. Steve had a hunch whatever Rumlow put in the kid’s pocket, or found there already, couldn’t have been anything good. And the fact that he fled  _ back _ into the dark districts when they let him go hadn’t escaped Steve’s notice.

 

But that was neither here nor there, at the moment. When he got back to his apartment, Steve immediately stripped and flung himself onto his bed wearing nothing but boxers, determined to give such thoughts a rest. Eventually he rolled over and stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to take him.

 

It didn’t.

 

After a few minutes he grumbled and made himself get up to turn down the blinds. Usually he was too far gone after a shift to give a damn about the light, but even the muted darkness did little. Steve lay on his pillow in about every position he could think of for the next hour, so tired he could weep. But to no avail. After another half hour of counting his breaths, Steve ripped off his blankets, jumped to his feet, and punched the wall.

 

It crumbled satisfyingly around his fist, drywall caving in. A momentary rush of victory swelled, feeling the cracked material bruise his knuckles and fall to the floor. Steve stepped back, shaking out the pain in his hand, and breathed deep, steadying breaths.

 

Then he glanced guiltily at the rest of the wall, three other gaping holes waiting to be patched up. 

 

(Make that four, now.)

 

Simply falling asleep, apparently was not an option. Neither was tiring himself out with a hook-up, even if he wanted one, not at 10 in the morning. Steve could always work out more, but the idea sounded like torture with how aching and tired his body already was. Besides those three things, though, there was little else to do with himself.

 

Except, perhaps, something Steve had been meaning to do for weeks.

 

Sam looked appropriately surprised to see him at his front door, thirty minutes later. He lived on the island of Manhattan, so it wasn’t exactly a stone’s throw to visit, but Steve should have made the drive a lot sooner. “Can I come in?” he asked sheepishly.

 

Sam’s surprise melted into warmth then, however, and he quickly ushered him through the door. “Man, it’s good to see your face,” Sam said with a wide grin once they were both sat down in his living room. “Can I get you anything--?”

 

Steve shook his head. “It’s good to see you too.”

 

“Been getting in trouble since I left?” Sam teased, forcing a smile to creep onto Steve’s mouth.

 

“Not like you could ever stop me,” he said, making Sam laugh.

 

“Sure couldn’t,” he agreed, regarding Steve with a wide smile. It faded a little as he asked, “But really. How’ve you been?”

 

“Tired,” Steve admitted. “You?”

 

“Well-rested, actually,” Sam smirked. “Going to bed with the sun works wonders, man.”

 

“I bet,” Steve sighed, glancing out the window.

 

“And what are you doing up? You’ve got that look of a man who hasn’t slept in weeks.”

 

A tired laugh escaped Steve. He couldn’t well deny it. Scrubbing his face once to keep his eyes open, he said, “Too caught up thinking.”

 

“About?”

 

“Why did you quit?” Steve asked, and made sure to catch Sam’s gaze as he did. 

 

Sam frowned, looking a tad defensive. “I told you, it was too close to--”

 

“To your tour in Afghanistan,” Steve hurriedly finished for him, “but how? What tipped the scale?”

 

“You’re thinking about getting out,” Sam guessed, as intuitive as always.

 

But Steve was hardly ready to admit that, even to himself. “I want the city to be safe,” he said instead of answering. “I thought joining the police force would do that . . .”

 

“But it’s not so simple as that,” Sam nodded, and Steve let out a relieved sigh. 

 

“Especially since you left,” he said with a tired chuckle.

 

Sam laughed too. “ _ Nobody _ could replace me as wingman,” he said, leaning back against his couch with smugness.

 

“I’ve missed you,” Steve said, looking down at his hands. He’d intended to get by on his own since the dusting, never lean on anyone else again. But it became readily clear when Sam stepped down a few months back how much Steve had come to rely on him.

 

“So what happened?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“What?”

 

“Come on, man, I’m not stupid,” Sam laughed, shaking his head ruefully. “You’re exhausted but you can’t sleep, you’re asking me why I left. So? What. Happened.”

 

He should have known Sam wouldn’t let him get by without opening up. The man was much more suited for his current occupation, a group leader for therapy. “We didn’t report it,” he started hesitantly, feeling a bit ashamed already. But Sam just smiled and nodded for him to continue. “At first I told myself that was a good thing, that Rumlow had actually let me show mercy to the guy we found. But then . . .”

 

“Start at the beginning,” Sam suggested when Steve couldn’t continue.

 

So he did. He told Sam about the weird, long argument he and Rumlow had, before finally letting him split ways to ‘start on the report.’ Then Steve’s inkling that finishing the patrol was not near as important as sticking together--and turning back in time to see Rumlow disappear down an alleyway next to an old bank. Then hearing voices from inside the doors, which he knew now he should have eavesdropped on instead of just barged in, guns blazing. Then--the kid. The young man, whose behavior still confused Steve looking back at it all. Cocky one moment, pitiful the next. That item in his side pocket Steve noticed as he ran, that Rumlow lied about.

 

“I can’t help wondering if . . . maybe I interrupted a meeting,” Steve admitted. “An Insurgent drop-off, of some kind. I don’t want to believe that of Rumlow, but . . .”

 

“But you do,” Sam answered for him. “Why not go to the Chief?”

 

Steve barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Rumlow’s chums with him, now. And it’s my word against his. I used to think I was doing something good, joining the police force, but over the years things have just gotten worse and worse.”

 

“I wanted to protect people,” Sam nodded. “When I realized I was just enforcing someone else’s agenda, didn’t sit right with me either.”

 

“Whose agenda, though?” Steve said, leaning forward in his seat. He gestured around them, out Sam’s large windows, saying, “The people out there need help. Maybe they wouldn’t join the Insurgents if we actually protected them, not just policed them.”

 

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Steve, maybe there isn’t a difference,” he said slowly.

 

Steve frowned. “What do you mean?”

 

“Between us and the Insurgents. Maybe, we’re all getting played,” Sam said through tight lips. “I don’t know, man. But when Governor Fury was shot six months ago, it didn’t add up. Why would Insurgents want to kill him, when he was actually trying to reconcile with them? Most of the government opposed him ‘making deals with terrorists,’ yet when he died they pinned him as a martyr. An example of why the Insurgents must be stopped at all costs.”

 

“They shot themselves in the foot,” Steve agreed with growing realization.

 

“Yeah. I . . . I don’t want to endanger you,” Sam said, speaking barely above a whisper now. Steve leaned even closer. “But _someone_ knew. Chief gave me orders to abandon my post and cover a different part of the street when Fury was giving his speech. If I hadn’t moved--if I hadn’t listened, maybe--”

 

“You can’t blame yourself,” Steve argued immediately, putting a hand on his old partner’s arm. Sam nodded and sighed. Steve gave a light squeeze before asking, “Why would that endanger me?”

 

“I approached Chief after the fact,” Sam said with a rueful smile. “No--I questioned the  _ hell _ out of him. Wouldn’t give it up, for days, asking why he had me change position. None of his excuses added up. Finally, he told me to quit or I’d be fired, and questioned myself for possible involvement.”

 

“ _ What? _ ” Steve asked in disbelief, leaning back. The heavy, foreboding feeling he’d had since the run-in with the young Insurgent settled even heavier in his chest, landing like a pit in his stomach. 

 

“Don’t mention it to him, or anyone at Command,” Sam added quickly, suddenly looking worried. “I don’t know what they’d do to you. Or who can be trusted.”

 

Steve’s first response, of course, was to quit. He couldn’t abide by corruption, regardless of who was behind it. But his second response was to  _ know _ . Steve needed to find out what was going on, so he could stop it. Put things to right. Help people, like he’d always intended.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” he said to Sam honestly. “But somehow, some way--”

 

“You’re going to get to the bottom of this,” Sam nodded with a knowing smile. “Starting with some sleep, I hope?” A good idea. Steve immediately yawned in response, making his friend laugh. “Here, I don’t trust you to drive home in this state. My bed is free for use until eight tonight.”

 

“Eight?” Steve said in mock judgement, even as he let Sam guide him into his bedroom.

 

“Hey, I’m a changed man now, Rogers,” Sam laughed as he pulled back the covers. “Gotta get my beauty sleep. Looks like you could use some.”

 

Laying down, having unloaded his worries to a friend, Steve found himself suddenly too tired to respond. He just rolled onto his stomach with a groan, quickly falling asleep to the sound of Sam still chuckling above him as he tucked him in.

 

When Steve woke up, it  _ was _ nearly eight at night. Which meant he’d gotten a full nine hours of sleep, he realized with hazy satisfaction.

 

“Sorry I stole your bed for so long,” he grumbled to Sam as he left the bedroom, who was reading a book on his couch.

 

“Naw, man, you already look better,” Sam waved him off. “Drive safe tonight. There’s some icy rainy shit coming down out there.”

 

Steve made a noise of acknowledgement as he toed on his shoes, thanked Sam for the bed, and grabbed his jacket before heading out. When he made it outside of the apartment building there was, indeed, a shit storm waiting for him. Steve blinked hard against the icy rain, nearly coming at him sideways as he tried to remember where he parked his car. He’d admittedly been a bit out of it when he came here, almost 12 hours ago.

 

The few people outside were walking even brisker than usual in the bad weather, passing by him with their hoods down against the sleet. Steve nearly collided with one a couple times as he hurried towards his vehicle, having to use his key fob more than once to finally find it. 

 

But just as Steve stopped his feet slipped out from underneath him. Someone behind him had rammed straight into him, falling over too. Steve blinked away the rain as he sat up with a groan, starting to say, “You okay--?”

 

But he never finished. Partly because the young man stood up immediately and set a brisk pace forward, not even meeting Steve’s eyes after nearly plowing him over.  _ Mostly _ , however, because in that moment Steve still caught a glimpse of his face, and immediately recognized it.

 

(Especially those lovely, expressive eyes.)

 

‘Jamie Baker,’ the Insurgent. In the middle of Manhattan, not hiding at the edges of the dark districts in an abandoned bank anymore. Walking with purpose, with a mission.

 

Steve hadn't known what to do, earlier today. But he stood up and without a second thought left his car where it was parked, following Jamie down the street. Intent now on a mission of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm moving forward with this fic and have about half of it pretty outlined, so I'd expect one or two chapters a week! 
> 
> For anyone waiting on 'Recipe for Demi-saster' I have NOT abandoned it, but I just keep writing angsty angst instead of fluffy fluff because Endgame has me fucked over still. Anyway.


End file.
